


Off Kilter

by AequoAnimo



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, kilt fic, pre-Specials, the MacDonald family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1496986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AequoAnimo/pseuds/AequoAnimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Number 10 is a madhouse, there's a wedding up in Scotland, and Jamie's feeling a bit neglected. Fortunately, he's got a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off Kilter

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to scottishwolves for beta-reading and stackcats for the advice!

It's the middle of the night and Malcolm, as usual, is picking up the pieces. Number 10's walls haven't seen a madder week than this one since Iraq. Angela Heaney and the twat brigade at the Mail got their hands on some critical Foreign Office cables and ignited a fire that has dominated the news for the past five days. There's a close by-election in Thurrock, courtesy of an ancient backbencher's _impeccably_ timed stroke. And to top it all off, one of the Whips broke a pap's nose outside the club he stumbled out of near dawn and he's pressing charges. The phones in the press room have been ringing round the clock and Malcolm has been barking orders until his throat runs hoarse and his eyes run red.

Around three in the morning, he manages to escape to his office. Usually he doesn't just keep up with the frenetic pace of the 24-hour news cycle, he _runs_ it, he fucking _commands_ it, but this week has left him nothing more than a drained corpse slouched a leather chair. Taking a breath for what feels like the first time in years, he picks at the curry that Sam left for him, bless her, and rests his eyes.

The door swings open and Jamie bursts in, evidently fresh off a visit to the coffee shop on the corner. He settles on the chair, all fire and fury wrapped in the navy duvet that he calls a suit, and tosses his feet onto Malcolm's desk, exercising one of his many exclusive rights. Malcolm doesn't have to open his eyes to know who's there. He can tell by the huffing breaths that he takes, the heavy footsteps as he bounds into the room, the sheer _intensity_ of his presence that Malcolm's senses are so finely attuned to detect. Well, that and the fact that no one else would ever dream of bounding into Malcolm's office like this when the door's closed.

“What do they want from me now?”

“Nothing, I've got it under control out there.” With anyone else, Malcolm's eyes would jolt open in panic at that assertion, but he knows that when Jamie says that, it's true. “Christ, you need to learn to take a fucking break. One of these days I'm gonnae find your auld bones passed out in this chair with a fucking artery burst in your head.”

Malcolm chuckles softly. “Ah, now wouldn't that be nice. A fucking holiday for once,” he says, eyes still hidden behind burning eyelids.

They sit quietly for a moment, savouring the rare silence in a day that has left their ears ringing with the pleas of self-serving bureaucrats and prying hacks alike.

“You know, Andy's getting married this weekend. I'm one of the ushers.”

Malcolm opens his eyes. It's not unusual for Jamie to talk about his other siblings, particularly the ones who end up in jail or hospital or both on a regular basis, but Andy isn't a common subject of conversation. He knew Andy when he was Jamie's fiery redhead kid brother, born sometime between Jamie's third and fourth sisters, but he hasn't seen him in years, probably not since Jamie's eldest daughter's christening.

Malcolm lifts his head, squinting. “Isn't he already married?”

“Aye, that lasted about two years. Left her once the bairn's hair started to turn brown and he got her to admit he wasn't the da'. He's got a new lass now.”

Malcolm musters the energy to snicker along with Jamie at the classic example of MacDonald paternity.

“So, are you coming?”

“Am I _what?_ ”

“Coming up for the wedding. I figured we could go back home for a coupl'a days.”

Malcolm shakes his head, equal parts frustrated and baffled. “What do you think this is, Mamma fucking Mia? I can't just ship up with you for your bastard brother's wedding. Things are falling apart here. It's Berlin, nineteen-eighty-fucking-nine, and I've got work to do,” he says, gesturing around the room. “And you do too.”

“Come on now. It's just a wedding,” Jamie says. “It's not even their first time around. Show up, get pissed, pass out. Really not different from most of your weekends.”

“Thank you for the fucking _enlightenment_ , but I know how weddings at home go. Had one of my own, if you'll so kindly remember. And we all know how that one turned out.”

“Oh, just make it look like you're up on party business. Didn't Iain Connolly call the new Minister of Health 'Oriental' up there? Just say it's about that. You – you can wear a fucking red tie, if you want.”

Malcolm leans back in his chair, bony fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Christ, you're right. Another fucking fire to put out before morning.”

“See? You need this.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. Even if he's mentally given in, he's not going to concede verbally so soon. He takes out his BlackBerry to scroll through heaps of emails that he has to deal with before he can have a brief nap.

Jamie turns when he reaches the door. “Oh, and don't worry. I told Sam you'll be taking the weekend off for personal matters.”

He flashes a grin before strutting out of the room, triumphant in using Malcolm's signature tactic against him. He passes Nicholson on his way out with only a slight grimace.

 

 

Jamie is usually quite happy with his position in the hierarchy of the press room. Malcolm devises the plans, Jamie executes them, and everything the light touches in Whitehall is theirs for the taking. But the withered cunt hasn't laid a _finger_ on Jamie in ages, thanks to this unfortunate chain of events that won't shape up any time soon, and Jamie's morning wanks in the bathroom aren't cutting it. If he's lucky, Malcolm might stop home to pass out next to him for a couple of hours. All of Jamie's attempts at furtive under-the-desk blowjobs after the office clears out have been dismissed with an exhausted shake of the head. Perhaps it's Malcolm trying to prove just how fucking indispensable he is to the party's continued reign in office, given the rumblings of a resignation going around, but Jamie has decided it's time to put his foot down.

As for the logistics, he knows Andy won't mind. It's just the church ceremony and an open reception at their favourite pub afterwards. The MacDonalds, of all people, have never been ones for exclusivity. And while Malcolm may not know it, Andy has always respected him. It's not hard to earn his loyalty, especially since Malcolm used to buy the fire-haired fourteen year old bastard and his friends booze back in the Glasgow paper days. MacDonald admiration isn't quick to fade.

Jamie doesn't like to get bogged down in the details the way Malcolm does, preferring to stick to plans consisting of verbs like _slay_ and _crush_ and _fuck,_ so the mechanics of the wedding scheme are simple: get Malcolm back home, give him a wee surprise, and teach him his fucking lesson. He's tried and tried again to get Malcolm to relax, but he's concluded it's just not going to happen south of the border. This time, he's going to teach Malcolm a lesson – no, a full _course_ – in Jamie MacDonald Appreciation that he won't forget any fucking time soon.

 

 

They arrive in Motherwell late on Friday night. Jamie's planning on sleeping at his mum's flat with the rest of the ushers, so Malcolm rents a room at a small inn on the edges of town. It's strategically chosen for its owners, recent Greek immigrants who wouldn't be able to tell him apart from the next emaciated grey Glaswegian if the press came knocking.

On Saturday morning, he blinks open bleary eyes to _5:44_ illuminated in stark red digits on the nightstand. Unfortunately, he lacks the “sleep like a log” gene that Jamie inherited as a member of the evolutionary branch more closely related to mankind's bear-like hibernating ancestors.

His arm reaches out from beneath the duvet and claws at the nightstand for his one link to civilisation, which, by his definition, extends no farther than the bounds of the M25. No service. Motherwell's not exactly the centre of the world, but it's hardly the Hebrides, so he tries restarting the BlackBerry. He vows to personally lodge a stylus in the CEO of RIM's fucking trachea if this thing's broken in his time of need.

The screen brightens, displaying the “no service” message again. He opens the back to check the battery for damage, but he finds no sign of a leak or crack. That's when the empty slot catches his eye. Jamie, that diabolical pygmy fuck, has nicked his SIM card. And of course, the God-forsaken inn doesn't have Wi-Fi _._ He slams the useless piece of plastic on the nightstand.

With no way of checking his email and voicemail and Jamie out doing God knows what with the rest of the wedding party, he's got nothing to _do_ for the first time since Christmas. He feels empty, almost anxious, with no reports to scroll through and no one who needs him. He tosses and turns for a while, thinking of all the things he could be doing, he _should_ be doing, before giving in and drifting off for another few hours.

 

 

Malcolm climbs into a taxi at half past one. Head leaning against the window, he passes through Jamie's old turf, reminded of all the spots where they used to roam. There's the corner where Jamie vomited his brains out after trying some basement-brewed liquor. It was during the summer he shaved the sides of his hair, took down his Jolson poster, and decreed The Clash to be the only religion he needed. He said it as boldly as if he'd been the first skint council house lad in the country to make such a declaration, but as he confessed several years later, it was mostly because he saw a few of their records strewn about Malcolm's messy flat. The driver speeds by the close where Malcolm was cornered by a man with a knife one rainy night. Jamie beat the bastard at his own game and got to him first, the first of many wounds he'd inflict for Malcolm. Every square metre of this town is saturated with memories of him and Jamie in their glory days.

The wedding looks like any other working-class Scottish Catholic wedding Mass: pews packed full of well-wishing nans and cousins and god-siblings, a row of the groom's lads nursing a nasty collective hangover, and an uncle looking worse for wear in one of the back pews, already sipping from his flask when he thinks no one's watching.

There's more white than red on Andy's head than Malcolm remembers. Jamie's lucky that his father passed on better genes in that regard, Malcolm thinks. Karen walks down the aisle to Andy, who's grinning ear to ear as if he's just won the lottery, X Factor, and the World Cup all in one day. Malcolm knows that look all too well. Malcolm sits on the groom's side of the church a few rows behind Jamie, amazed that he's actually managed to run a comb through his hair today.

After the usual readings and recitations, Andy pulls out a diamond ring, probably obtained from the pawnbroker down the road. Just as the priest blesses the rings and Andy lifts one furry red paw to put it on Karen's finger, the ring falls to the ground, tumbling down red-carpeted steps. The grannies gasp. Uncle Mark guffaws in the back. The guests crane their necks to see the ring on the ground.

Above the heads of the relatives in front of him, he can glimpse thin calves kneeling on the floor, black laces wrapped around the shins. It can't be. He sits up slightly to get a better look. He can scarcely believe his eyes, but it _is_ Jamie, kilt falling just above his knees while he retrieves the ring. It slides up a bit and exposes his pale thigh. Malcolm swallows.

All this time, Malcolm had been expecting Jamie to wear his dinner jacket, the one that makes him look more like fucking Pingu than a professional, since he dons it about once a month for government occasions. It's what Malcolm would expect from normal, sensible people. Perhaps he really has spent too much time in London after all, because he's forgotten that Jamie, as he came to realise one night decades ago, is the furthest thing from his notions of _normal_ and _sensible._

Jamie hands Andy the ring and claps him on the back before sitting back down. Malcolm mentally slaps himself on the back of the wrist with a ruler as the ceremony continues. He shouldn't be having these thoughts. It's just a sliver of skin, really, the space between his tall hose and the hem of the kilt, but it's enough for Malcolm. He's half a world away, lost in thought, because that sliver has reminded him of what the rest of his legs look like and how very fucking long it has been since he's seen them.

For Malcolm, the thing about Jamie's legs is that there are so many _possibilities._ Legs that rest on Malcolm's shoulders occasionally, feet intertwined around his neck and squeezing with each of Malcolm's thrusts. Knees that retain the slightest hint of carpet-burn in the morning. Thighs that twitch at the slightest brush of a lip. Legs that always tighten, always flex as he comes, thin lean muscle working to keep him thrusting into Malcolm upon the threat of death for stopping. It's a damn good thing he keeps them hidden in those fucking floor-to-ceiling _curtains_ that he calls trousers, because Malcolm having this sort of breakdown on an everyday basis would put the government in danger of collapse. He shifts smooth black Armani against the hard wooden pew in an attempt to conceal these thoughts, as he imagines it's probably frowned upon to get a hard-on for the groom's brother at a celebration of holy matrimony.

 

 

The reception is low-key, with the entire Glasgow-area MacDonald clan crammed into the back of the pub where Andy's new bride works. As with most MacDonald family occasions, it's louder than Celtic Park on match night and there's blood on the floor before the sun even goes down. Malcolm makes small talk with some old acquaintances for a while, mainly neighbours from Jamie's old estate that he came to know during their early days on the paper. They've gained weight, though he can't exactly say the same for himself. Fuck, he's lost at least a stone since the last time he had a mailing address in this part of the country. They work honest jobs five days a week, jobs that Malcolm's father would have liked him to pursue (and often told him to pursue, if “drunkenly screamed at” is included in the definition of “told”). They leave their work at the shop, the garage, the warehouse when they're finished, not thinking about it until they return in the morning, well-rested and ready for another seven hours or so.

Malcolm somehow manages to get through a few conversations about football, whinging wives, and weans going off to the army, thanks to the whisky he's been nursing all evening. He nods politely at then second intervals when Jamie's red-faced cousin Stu goes on a rant about some blokes on the City Council fucking up the permits he needs to start his latest business. He makes the right political jabs at the right times, diffusing the tension and leaving everyone laughing at the sorry fucks in the Opposition.

Although he loves charming an audience and this audience is very attentive indeed, proud of Glasgow's faithful son fighting the Tories down in London, he starts to wonder where Jamie's gone. Helping the groom couldn't be taking him _that_ long, even given the usual MacDonald drinking and vomiting habits. He politely excuses himself and the festivities continue.

Knowing is the central part of his job description, so Malcolm is acutely aware of all of Jamie's weaknesses; the base of his throat, the sensitive skin along his wrists, and casually-used terms of endearment are among Malcolm's favourites. He finds some less pleasant, however, including Jamie's crippling nicotine addiction, so it's not hard to figure out where he's fucked off to. As expected, he peeks down the dark close next to the pub to see the back of a wee kilted figure leaning against the brick wall. He can make out the cacophony of drunken shouts coming from inside the pub and spilling into the street, but that hardly registers in his mind right now as he approaches Jamie in his usual silent Angel of Death fashion.

A hand clamps down on Jamie's shoulder.

“You,” a low voice growls into his ear, “look like a fucking schoolgirl.”

Jamie shivers, the hot breath on the back of his neck mixing with the cool night air. The grip tightens, turning him around. He is suddenly face to face with the walking corpse himself, jaw slack, haggard eyes boring into him with an intensity he hasn't seen since one night in 1997. He can't help but smirk at how perfectly his plan is working.

“Aye, and you look like Dracula. Stick to grey, eh? Makes you look less like the fucking Grim Reaper.”

Malcolm grits his teeth, quickly glancing toward the street. It's empty, save for a few cars. Not that it would have _really_ stopped him. They're deep enough in the close that no one would have noticed them. He snatches at Jamie's chest, fingers grasping the top of his waistcoat. Jamie drops the cigarette and grinds it into the concrete with the sole of his shoe as he presses his lips to Malcolm's.

For a moment, Jamie's matching eagerness surprises Malcolm, but he soon forgets that thought and just about all others when Jamie tangles his fingers in the wee patch of fine hair that refuses to go grey at the nape of his neck, tugging gently. Jamie's knuckles scrape against the brick of the pub wall as he presses Malcolm against it, warm tongue slipping between parted lips. Malcolm groans into him. It must have been weeks since the last time his thin pale lips have felt Jamie's on his own.

“Took you long enough,” Jamie mutters when Malcolm finally stops to catch his breath.

 

 

They're able to slip out of the reception without much ceremony. Jamie goes through the usual goodbyes, kisses to drunken great-aunts, and false promises to visit more often, but for the most part the MacDonalds are all too pissed to ask where he's off to so early in the night. Malcolm catches a taxi for them, gruffly telling the driver the hotel's address. Jamie has never been more thankful for cabbies' reckless driving than he is now.

Malcolm tries to keep himself under control, he really does, but it's no use. His fingertips begin to trace light circles just above Jamie's knee in the backseat. When the driver turns on the radio, his fingers disappear under the hem, running across Jamie's thigh. Malcolm slides his hand higher up his leg in the darkness. Jamie can swear he hears him whimper when he realises that Jamie, true to tradition, is wearing absolutely nothing beneath the heavy wool of his kilt. Malcolm reaches up and brushes against Jamie's cock before skating back downwards when they pull up to the inn. Jamie's teeth threaten to break the skin of his lower lip.

When occasions require staying at a hotel, Malcolm always insists that they enter separately, but fuck, there's no one _important_ in Motherwell on a Saturday night (or ever, for that matter), so this time he practically drags Jamie to the elevator. Fortunately, they're only staying on the second floor, so the ride doesn't take long. After fumbling with the lock – Christ, the place is so old there's an _actual key_ – Malcolm pushes into the door with his entire body. Jamie rushes to the bed and Malcolm is on him in an instant, wondering how he could he have forgotten how much he needed this, how stupid he was to let work, the party, the fucking _country_ get in the way of him on top of Jamie.

“Jesus Christ, you've gone fucking _tribal”_ –Malcolm wrenches Jamie's sporran aside in vain – “fucking full-on _Braveheart_.” Malcolm knows the rage that film inspires in Jamie. Normally, Jamie would be fine with a Mel Gibson film full of spears and axes and blood. In fact, he quite liked the imagery in the one that came out a few years back. But despite the gratuitous amounts of English blood pouring all over the fields of his homeland in this film, Jamie harbours an unreasonable amount of hatred for its terrible accents and the flood of tourists it spurred.

Jamie considers taunting Malcolm about having a hard-on for William fucking Wallace in retaliation, but he decides against it now, choosing instead to rip Malcolm's jacket from his back and toss it on a chair next to the bed. He'll pay for that later, but Malcolm's too distracted to notice now.

He moves to Malcolm's tie, slipping silk through the knot. He hopes Malcolm won't see his hands trembling, high on excitement that his plan is finally coming together.

“Don't fucking choke me now, you twat,” Malcolm says, as if “twat” were the most adoring name he could possibly call him, and moves to unbutton Jamie's waistcoat. The positioning is awkward and it would make far more sense for each to undress himself, but the luxuries of _logic_ and _thinking_ have no place here tonight.

“Jesus, how many straps do these things have? You might as well have worn fucking stripper heels,” Malcolm says, fumbling with the laces of Jamie's brogues.

“Oh, aye,” says Jamie as he tears Malcolm's shirt from his back. He kicks the shoes off and Malcolm moves on to his jacket. “Bet you'd like that.”

Malcolm glares at him, but before he has a chance to reply, he's interrupted. He wrings his hand in pain and stops to look at the tip of his skinny index finger. “Christ, where'd you nick the fucking boutonniere of death?”

“Let me see.” He takes Malcolm's hand in his, examining the tiny pinprick for a moment. “Oh, that's nothing,” he says. He sticks out his tongue and gives it a light, gentle lick, warm and wet and soft. Malcolm starts to roll his eyes at the hamminess of it all, but then Jamie's tongue starts to swirl around his finger, sucking gently, and those eyes simply squeeze shut. Jamie can feel his chest rise and fall with a few shaky breaths.

“Fuck, Jamie, could you...”

But Jamie's already there; he's already got a hand moving up Malcolm's leg to unbutton him, he's already moving his head down with the most diabolical glint in his mad blue eyes.

He twists his fingers in Jamie's hair, grasping tightly as Jamie slides his soft lips along the length of him. His toes spread and curl each time Jamie's tongue runs across him. Just when his legs tense up and he thinks he's about to lose all control, Jamie lifts his mouth off of him, hot tongue lingering on that one spot that drives him mad. The sight alone is nearly enough to make Malcolm lose it, but the devilish smirk that Jamie gives him makes it even worse. He's barely hanging on by a thread now.

Jamie hates to stop, especially since the lanky cunt lets out an almost irresistible whine when he gets up, but he knows what's best for Malcolm.

“Fucking _tease,_ ” Malcolm breathes.

Jamie leans back to pull a small bottle out of the pile of tartan on the floor.

Malcolm narrows his eyes. “Oh, so you were planning this, were you?”

“'Course I fucking was,” Jamie says.

“Thought I did the planning around here.”

“Not when you're too busy worrying about people finding out about some diplomat wankers talking shite behind Putin's back.”

Malcolm starts to respond, but he's cut off when Jamie grips his thighs and pushes into him, pressing lingering kisses to the side of his neck.

“Knew this was going to happen all along,” Jamie says into Malcolm's ear, voice half an octave lower than usual.

“Oh, aye?” It's an incredible feat of nature that he can manage to put together a single thought, let alone a couple of words at this point, and when they wake up in a few hours, he'll demand a fucking medal for it.

“'M an usher.” He pauses, thrusting with lips curled upward in a smug grin just inches from Malcolm's own. “Figured I'd have my pick of the fucking bridesma–”

Malcolm cuts him off with a swift bite where his neck meets his shoulder and Jamie ceases all taunting. Sucking on the thin skin there, he lets out a satisfied growl at Jamie's resulting moan.

Jamie continues, whispers of Malcolm's name scattered between soft moans. Malcolm's fingernails sink deeper into soft flesh, pulling Jamie deeper into him in desperation.

“Please, darlin',” he gasps. “Need more.”

It's quite a shame that Malcolm doesn't remember his manners more often, because whenever he does, he gets precisely what he wants. Jamie's hands grip Malcolm's sharp hipbones and moves faster. Christ, is the skinny fuck even eating those satsumas, or is it all an elaborate disappearing trick?

Malcolm can't take it much longer. Jamie's overtaken all of his senses and he is falling, falling _fast_. His breath hitches in his throat as Jamie wraps his fingers around his cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. Jamie looks down to see Malcolm writhing and arching beneath him, fucking _panting_ as he comes, and it's all too much. He clenches his eyes shut and shouts a string of profanities as he comes.

Malcolm lies on his back and catches his breath, wiping himself off with the top sheet and throwing it on the floor. Jamie is already face down, sprawled like a mop-headed starfish next to him. He shuts off the light and swaddles himself in the covers.

After a few minutes, he feels sleepy fingers run through his hair.

“Maybe next time you take me for granted, I'll come into the office one morning playing the fucking bagpipes. Bet that'd really get you going, eh?” Jamie laughs. “Auld perverted cunt.”

Malcolm jabs him in the rib with a cold, bony elbow, but that doesn't stop the wee furnace from snuggling up to his back and wrapping a warm arm around his hip. Malcolm falls into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Lesson learned.

 


End file.
